


Born Swimming

by nymja



Series: Born Swimming [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Meeting at a Masquerade Ball AU, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best way to create peace is through dance.</p><p>Or: Zuko struggles not to offend the visiting daughter of a major world power. Through dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born Swimming

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by sticks-with-mints & some lovely anons on tumblr! Prompt was Meeting at a Masquerade Ball AU.

“I look like an  _idiot_.”

His sister doesn’t even look up from inspecting her manicure, “Then I imagine it’s time to develop charm and personality, Zuzu.”

“That’s not funny.”

She yawns, setting down her hand in order to lean against a pillar. Even dressed in an evening gown, with a red and gold feathered mask, everything about Azula still manages to scream  _predator._ “Of course it’s not. If anything, it’s cruel of father—giving you yet another opportunity to embarrass yourself.”

Zuko grits his teeth, and readjusts his mask for the hundredth time. It’s blue. He isn’t sure why he picked a blue one when he’s supposed to be representing his country tonight. He’s also still not sure if he wants to just grab a bottle of whiskey and retreat to his room for the rest of the night-

“-you’re not planning on  _sulking_ again, are you?”

“ _No_.”

“Are you sure? You’re wearing your sulking face.”

“You can’t even see my face!”

“ _Please,_ Zuzu.”

“Please what?”

Azula rolls her eyes, “I think I’ve had enough of coddling your wallflower tendencies for one night,” she grins, and Zuko watches her stare move to a man wearing a navy blue suit with a wolf mask, “Time for new company. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the future Chief of the Water Tribes. Bye, Zuzu. Try not to shame our country too much this evening.”

And just like sharks are born swimmers, Azula is a born mingler. Zuko watches as she saunters up and corners the man, starting a conversation that seems to be both flirtatious and vaguely intimidating.

Zuko’s never been good at swimming.

He walks over to the punch bowl. At a political function like this, where the heads of the four most powerful nations are convening for a treaty negotiation, it’s important to go with punch. Drinking punch is safe. Drinking punch won’t accidentally start a war or increase tariffs somewhere.

So Zuko drinks punch for two hours and glares.

He’s in the middle of pouring another glass when someone tries to talk to him.

“We match.”

Zuko almost chokes on his punch, but he recovers quickly enough from the unexpected social interaction. A woman stands in front of him, wearing a simple flowing, purple dress that’s at odds with all the clinging evening wear and high-priced gems. Instead of a mask, she wears a wide, straw hat with a veil. Her chin, painted with a thick red stripe, and her lips, are all he can really see.

“We do?” Zuko is just wearing the black suit and the blue mask. And looking like an idiot. She, he decides, does not look like an idiot. “How.”

She tilts her head up, and the veil moves to show her entire face. Her eyes are bright and big when she smiles, “Oh, you know. Painted Lady-“ she spreads her arms wide, “-and Blue Spirit?” She points to the mask he’s wearing.

He has no idea what she’s talking about. He lifts the mask up just enough for him to drink his punch, “What.”

Her smile dims a little, but she still seems…friendly. It’s weird. No one’s friendly at these things, “I just thought that was what you were going for, with the blue Oni and all.”

Zuko mutters something into his punch.

“Sorry?”

“…My mom picked it out.”

He’s thankful when she doesn’t say anything mocking about it—Azula definitely did (“Twenty three and still can’t pick out your own outfits, Zuzu?”)—though he does notice she looks sad for some reason. Which makes him feel a little guilty. Which is also weird. Because it’s not  _his_ fault that he’s wearing a matching costume without realizing it.

“I like your hat.” There. That was fair. But for some reason he feels compelled to keep going, “It looks. Nice.”

That sadness leaves as quickly as it arrived, “Thank you, I made it myself.”

“Really?” Anyone who qualified for an invite to these things had servants. It was how things went.

She shrugs, “I sew a lot.”

“But that’s such a…”

“Such a what?”

“Peasant thing.” He wants to take the words back as soon as he says them.

She seems a little less friendly now, and there’s a coolness to her tone, “And what’s so bad about  _peasant things_?”

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with being a peasant-“

“So  _I’m_ a peasant?”

“-No! You just sew!” He goes to trail a hand down his face without thinking about it, realizes about halfway through that he’s wearing a mask, and is pretty sure he hears Azula sniggering a dance floor away, “This is hopeless. Can we start over?”

“If you can spare a moment for the common folk.”

His fingers tighten around a cup. He counts to ten. “Okay, fine. I deserved that.”

“You did.”

The punch cup is crushed in his hand. They stare at each other for a few moments.

“Well?” She asks.

“Well what?”

“Are we starting over?”

He inhales, “Hi.”

Her eyebrows raise, “Hi.”

Zuko, between looking like an idiot, drinking more and more punch, trying to give a compliment, and wanting to put a foot in his mouth, suddenly realizes that the woman he’s talking to is pretty. Beautiful, even. And he already made her mad. Great.

“Do you. Want punch. Or something.”

“Sure. I’m Katara, by the way.”

He goes to pour punch. And freezes. That name’s important. Zuko internally goes through his  _Who’s Who in International Politics_ manual and wants to jump out a window when he realizes who she is.

Katara, of the Southern Water Tribe. Daughter of Chief Hakoda. Who his father, King Ozai, is desperately trying to reconcile reparations with. Her family is the reason they are hosting this stupid ball in the first place.

He glares at the bowl as if it has personally offended him.  _Drinking punch was supposed to be **safe.**_

“Your punch is spilling onto your shoes.”

That’s because he’s already filled this cup nine times. That’s because he crumpled holes into it. He grabs another one and practically slams it full of the drink, before jutting his arm out to her. “Here.”

She takes it, eyebrow still raised ( _how is he still screwing this up?! He poured her **punch**_ ) _,_ “…Thanks.”

He needs to fix this. Somehow. He  _wants_ to fix this. Because she still seems nice, even though she’s still staring at him uncomfortably. Zuko takes a deep breath, and tries to think of what Uncle would do in this situation.

_Zuko, you must treat the approval of a woman like the beauty of cherry blossoms—something to be treasured, in its fleeting moments—_

Blossoms. Right.

“Do you want to dance?”

Katara blinks, but at least she’s no longer frowning at him, “Dance?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“…yes.”

“Why?”

“Cherry blossoms twirl.”

“ _What_?”

“Do you want to dance or not?”

She shakes her head, but puts her punch down. “Okay,” she agrees with obvious hesitation, “But only because I like this song.”

Zuko frowns, and it occurs to him that there’s been music playing this whole time. He listens. It’s a traditional song, about cranes. “…I like this song too,” he says, surprised.

The smile on her face is small, but there. “Lead the way, Blue Spirit.”

—

They dance. She’s way, way better at it than he is. But he’s also having a harder time than usual—his palms keep getting sweaty and his heart’s beating a lot faster than usual. It’s like he has two left feet.

But Katara seems to notice that he’s having choreographical difficulties, because she slows her own pace down to match his.

The song ends. He scowls. And Katara tilts her head.

“What?”

Zuko takes a deep breath, “Can I try again?”

“Try what again?”

“Dancing. I’m normally better at it, I promise.”

She laughs, but it’s not a mocking one.

“Sure, we can dance again.”

—

He steps on her foot during the next song. She grimaces.

“Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

“Piece of advice?”

“…sure.”

“Stop trying so hard.”

“I’m not!”

—

It takes him about seven dances to get better at it.

By that point, he’s not thinking about how off-tempo he is, or  _why_ his palms won’t stop sweating, but rather that she’s still really nice. And that he likes dancing with her. And that he’s going to have to Google what a Painted Lady is later.

—

He doesn’t remember telling her his name.

—

The night draws to a close, and the last dance they have together is a slow one. His hand is on her waist, hers are around his neck.

“I’m sorry I called you a peasant.”

“I’m sorry I let the punch fall on your shoes for a few seconds before telling you.”

Behind his mask, he smiles.

Somehow she knows, and matches it.

—

She has really blue eyes.

—

And he’s a little sad when she leaves with her brother and father, though he doesn’t know why.

It’s all very weird, with her.

—

The next morning, Azula barges into his room. She’s still wearing her sleeping robe.

“Care to explain this?” She asks, sugary sweet, before throwing a rolled up newspaper at his head.

He groans, struggling to wake up, “What-?”

“Read the paper, Zuzu.”

He does. On page six, there’s a photograph of him and Katara dancing together.

**ROMANCE? OR SCANDAL? SPARKS FLY WHEN WATER AND FIRE COLLIDE-**

He doesn’t remember any sparks flying. Just feeling really nervous and uncomfortable and desperately wanting her to not hate him. And liking her smile.

“I spend  _hours_ with that  _oaf_ Sokka, and  _you_  get the spread,” Azula sneers, “Father’s ecstatic, by the way. We needed positive publicity for this function, and apparently your social skills aren’t entirely hopeless since she’s sent a formal request for you to visit the embassy-“

His heart thuds, “-she wants to see me again?”

“ _Ugh,_ ” Azula groans, stalking towards the door, “Never mind. You. Are.  _Hopeless_.”

Zuko sits up, self-consciously patting down his hair, and not even caring if there’s a stupid grin on his face.

She wants to see him again.

Which probably means she doesn’t hate him.

Zuko steps out of bed. He needs to talk to Uncle Iroh before he goes. 


End file.
